


Carpe Diem

by ShowMeAHero



Series: breaking all the rules [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AU in which some of les amis are cops, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Art, Bromance, Brotp, Cops, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Necessary Exposition, Police, and the rest of les amis are on the wrong side of the law, but it's really not too bad, or at least they are not on the right side of it, otp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:59:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The police only have so much to deal with in a town as small as this one. So, when Grantaire shows up to bail out his drunk friends, it's really only a matter of time before he sees Enjolras again. Of course, it may have taken longer if their friends didn't meddle, but they are les amis. Of course they're going to meddle.</p><p>Modern AU in which Enjolras, Marius, Jehan, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Musichetta are cops, Valjean is a police chief, Javert is a detective, Grantaire, Eponine, Montparnasse, and Bahorel aren't exactly model citizens, Joly is a coroner, and Musichetta owns a cafe/bar on the side, which Grantaire and Bossuet work at.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carpe Diem

The end of Feuilly’s day came with stacks of paperwork and only two arrests, both from Courfeyrac and Jehan, who had been put on patrol in the area that Marius had once said was “as bad as a town like ours can get”. It was true that their town was relatively unexciting - hence their small police force, where the cops occasionally had to be detectives, much to Detective Javert’s dismay - but the bad part could, sometimes, get pretty bad. Feuilly eyed the two people in one of their three holding cells. There was one young woman - relatively pretty, fairly dirty, with a trench coat that was far too big for her wrapped around her and long, dark hair falling down her back - and one young man - well-built, muscular, in a ratty wifebeater and old jeans, with dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes - tucked together in the corner. The girl had fallen asleep, her head on the guy’s shoulder.

Jehan had informed Feuilly that the girl was one of the Thernadiers, and the guy was one they had picked up a few times for various reasons, though most of those reasons were fighting. Feuilly passed Enjolras and Combeferre on his way out, since his friends had been stuck on the night shift. He pat them on the shoulders, gathered his paperwork, and left. Courfeyrac touched his index finger to his nose the second he spotted his two friends. Jehan did the same, grinning widely, and Combeferre beat Enjolras to it. Enjolras sighed.

“What do I have to do?” Enjolras asked, dropping his bag down onto the floor beside his desk and slipping his coat off before hanging it off the back of his chair. Courfeyrac leaned back in his chair and pointed at the man lingering in the doorway of the police station, reading the plaques on the wall. Enjolras raised an eyebrow at the stranger; he had on a paint-splattered t-shirt, torn black pants, and a threadbare green jacket. His shoes were falling apart, and his hair was a dark, curly, tangled mess. Enjolras swallowed and closed his eyes briefly before he looked back at Courfeyrac.

“He wants to bail out the two drunks in the drunk tank,” Courfeyrac informed him. The man looked up and offered a cheerful wave. Enjolras sighed and made his way over to the stranger.

“I’m here to relieve you of my two idiotic friends,” the man said cheerfully, his eyes on his hand as he reached for his wallet, pulling out of the pocket of his ratty jacket. “What’s the damage?”

“Nothing for the Thernadier girl - Eponine, I believe - because this is her first offense for public intoxication,” Enjolras informed him, looking down at the papers Jehan had neatly filled out for him at the desk beside the cells. “Five hundred dollars for Bahorel, because this is the third time we’ve brought him in in the past two months.” When the stranger did not respond, Enjolras looked up at him. “What’s wrong?”

The man was just staring openly at Enjolras. When they made eye contact, he blinked and shook his head slightly before handing over a fistful of twenties. “Nothing’s wrong. Here’s... that should be five hundred. I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Officer Enjolras,” Enjolras informed him, taking the money from the man and sliding over a few forms for him to sign. The man took them and a pen from the cup, clearly practiced in this. Enjolras wondered why he had never seen this man before.

“Mine’s Grantaire,” the man said, his head still bent over the forms. “The answer to the question you never asked, I know.” Grantaire put the pen down and handed the forms back. “Why did they get arrested this time?”

“Both of them for public intoxication.” Enjolras accepted the papers and motioned with his hand for Grantaire to follow him. The man followed, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. Enjolras unlocked the drunk tank, and Grantaire moved past him, heaving the sleeping woman to her feet. Bahorel stood up shakily and pat Grantaire on the shoulder, clearly still drunk. When Eponine remained asleep, Grantaire swept her up in his arms. She nuzzled into his chest in her sleep. Enjolras held open the door to the cell.

“This is the last time I’m leaving you two alone,” Grantaire grumbled under his breath in Bahorel’s direction. He flashed a grin at Enjolras. “Though I’d love to see your pretty face again, Officer Apollo, I hope it’s not because I have to bail out either of these idiots again.”

Enjolras’ words stuck in his throat in surprise. He was not used to being caught speechless. Grantaire edged past him, carrying Eponine, with Bahorel right on his heels, his hand fisted in the back of Grantaire’s jacket so he would stay on course. Grantaire said his goodbyes to the other cops in the main room, and Jehan and Courfeyrac waved back, while Combeferre just looked confused. Enjolras watched the troop leave before he shut the cell door.

“What the hell was that?” Enjolras asked as he came back into the main room. Courfeyrac shrugged.

“Beats me. I don’t know him, he wasn’t there when we arrested them,” Courfeyrac informed him, kicking his feet up onto his desk. Combeferre reached over and swatted them down, looking nervously over his shoulder in the direction of Detective Javert’s office; though the blinds were closed, and the door was shut, he was known to creep on the police more often than not.

“I know him,” Jehan said dreamily, spinning back and forth in his chair. He was playing absently with the end of his braid. “He’s Grantaire. He’s a local artist, and he’s really good. I mean _really_ good.”

“Someone’s got a crush,” Courfeyrac teased. Jehan’s eyes widened, and he blushed, looking down at his lap.

“Not on him,” Jehan murmured softly. Courfeyrac cocked his head to the side.

“Then on wh-”

“Enough of that,” Enjolras interrupted sharply. Courfeyrac scowled at him, but Jehan looked infinitely grateful; he even mouthed _thank you_ at Enjolras as he pushed his strawberry-blond braid back over his shoulder and set to filling out one of the folders of forms on his desk. “Who’s going on patrol tonight?”

Combeferre tipped back in his chair to read the wall chart. “Looks like it’s Marius and Musichetta.”

“God help him if Marius is still talking about that girl he met two days ago, because I’ll beat him,” Courfeyrac threatened vaguely, scrubbing his hands over his face tiredly. As if on cue, Marius came spinning in just then, his cell phone clutched to his chest.

“Cosette texted me _again_!” Marius exclaimed, falling into his chair at his desk. Enjolras sat up, his back ramrod-straight.

“Cosette? As in, Cosette _Valjean_ , Chief Valjean’s daughter?” Enjolras demanded. Marius nodded nervously, his grin gone at Enjolras’ sudden tension. “You’re trying to date Chief Valjean’s daughter?”

Courfeyrac let out a low whistle. “Dude’s gonna kill you. You know how the Chief gets about her.”

Marius frowned, his puppyish eyes abruptly sad. “But... I really like her.”

“Don’t listen to them, Marius,” Combeferre said, clearly exasperated, shooting a glare at Enjolras. The blond ignored his best friend.

“Yeah, Marius. It’s okay if you want to date her. You’re a good guy, and the Chief knows that,” Jehan assured him. He stretched across their desks to pat Marius’ hand. “You’re a lovely person. Cosette is lucky to have your affections.”

Musichetta came in just then, hurrying in and slamming the front door of the station shut behind her. “Sorry, I know I’m a little late, I had to pass over the cafe to Bossuet and then Joly stopped me on the way in, and-”

“Joly’s here?” Jehan asked excitedly. Musichetta barely nodded before Jehan sprinted out the front door. Musichetta blinked after him before meeting Courfeyrac’s eyes with a raised eyebrow.

“What was that about?” Musichetta asked, tossing her bag onto her chair and working her long, dark hair into a bun.

“He’s been texting someone for a little while now. I’ll assume it was Joly,” Courfeyrac informed her, scratching at the back of his head. “They’ve been hanging out a lot lately.”

It was true; the friendship that had sprung up between Joly and Jehan lately was quick and astounding. Joly, the relatively new coroner who worked at the morgue next door and did most, if not all, of the autopsies for the police department, was nothing if he was not cautious. Jehan was independent, extroverted, and constantly moving. It was interesting that the two had found such fast friends in each other. Feuilly insisted that the two shared a secret, but Combeferre disagreed, saying the two had a fairly romantic view of the world, despite Joly’s raging hypochondria, and they found in that an even footing. Enjolras tended to agree with Combeferre, but he often agreed with his best friend - it was one of the reasons they were best friends.

“Why is nobody on patrol?” Javert suddenly growled. Everybody in the room flinched, and Musichetta dropped her pen. Courfeyrac’s feet hit the ground heavily. “This is why we should not have hired _children_ to do the jobs of _men_.”

“Detective.” Chief Valjean appeared in the doorway of his office at the top of the stairs, a hint of scolding in his voice, as though Detective Javert was a child. The detective dropped his head slightly. “These men and women do excellent work, and, so long as they do, their age does not matter. I’m sure Marius and Musichetta were just on their way out now.” Chief Valjean nodded to the both of them before his eyes settle on Marius. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Cosette. You’re a good kid, Officer Pontmercy.”

“Thank you, sir,” Marius replied, his voice only trembling slightly. Chief Valjean smiled before disappearing back into his office. Detective Javert glared at the room at large before he slammed the door to his own office. Courfeyrac leaned back dramatically in his chair.

“Javert’s impossible to work with,” Courfeyrac complained, keeping his voice low enough to not attract attention. Musichetta picked up her pen again and shushed Jehan when he rushed back in. He slowed, peeking at Javert’s door nervously.

“See, Marius? The Chief said you’re a good kid. Don’t worry yourself,” Combeferre said reassuringly before he turned to Enjolras. “You and I have some paperwork to do before our shift starts.”

“And when is that tonight?” Enjolras asked, his head still bent over the stack of papers on his desk as he worked steadily through them.

“You’re switching with M&Ms at one-thirty,” Jehan informed them without needing to look at the wall chart. Courfeyrac laughed.

“You and your memory. You’re too smart for us, I’m telling you.” Courfeyrac flicked a paper football in Jehan’s direction, but his partner just batted it away, a grin on his face. Marius handed Musichetta her jacket before the two left with a wave. Enjolras watched the scene with vague fondness for a moment before he returned to his papers.

* * *

“What the hell is that supposed to be?” Eponine asked, her hands on her hips. Grantaire wished she had stayed asleep.

“It’s chalk. Even you should know that,” Grantaire shot over his shoulder. Eponine kicked his ankle before settling on the sidewalk next to Montparnasse. She took the gum from his mouth and stuck it in her own. Bahorel grimaced.

“I mean, who is that? I’ve never seen him before,” Eponine rephrased. She craned her neck to look at the enormous chalk drawing in the middle of the street, Grantaire on his hands and knees in the middle of it with a box of children’s chalk.

“It’s that blond cop from the station,” Bahorel answered cheekily. Grantaire glared at him before returning to his chalk art. “The one Grantaire fell in horny, dirty love with.”

“Shut up,” Grantaire growled, his fist clenching around a piece of blue chalk, his knuckles going white. Bahorel guffawed.

“I knew it.” Bahorel stood up, lifting his beer bottle in one hand and waving it around. “Grantaire is the east, and Officer Perfect is the sun, right?”

“I said _shut up_ , Bahorel!” Grantaire shouted, throwing the chalk down and sitting back on his calves. He grabbed his own bottle of cheap beer from the sidelines of his drawing and took a long pull from it before he continued to glare at Bahorel. “It doesn’t fucking matter anyways, alright?”

“Why not? You’re a hot piece of ass, you could get him,” Eponine called from the sidewalk, where Montparnasse was trying to unhook her bra through her shirt. She smacked his hands away and slapped his cheek before returning her attention to Grantaire. Montparnasse got up in a huff and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He tossed one to Grantaire, and both of them lit up. Eponine refused to smoke because of her asthma, and Bahorel was trying to quit, since he still had no job which gave him the money to pay for cigarettes.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, ‘Ponine, but have you seen me?” Grantaire motioned to himself with his cigarette before he took a drag from it. “This is not ‘date-a-cop’ material. He didn’t even look at me anyways. For all I know, he’s got some pretty little thing waiting for him at home with lasagna and late night talk shows or some shit.”

“Because that’s what people do,” Bahorel said sarcastically. Grantaire waved a dismissive hand at him.

“I’m serious. If he’s gay, you should go for it.” Eponine leaned back on her elbows. “Hell, go for it anyways. You’ve turned heads, I swear.”

“I don’t usually go for guys,” Montparnasse offered helpfully. Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him.

“You’ll fuck anything that moves, it’s not exactly special that you fuck me when I feel lonely.” Grantaire finished his cigarette with one long breath of smoke before he stubbed it out on the pavement and tossed the butt in the sewer drain. He drained his beer, passed the bottle back to Bahorel, and got back to work on his chalk drawing. “Besides, like I said, he’s not interested in me. I would’ve known if he was. He wouldn’t date someone like me if I were the last person on Earth.”

“We’ll just see about that,” Eponine teased. She stood up and shrugged the trench coat off, tossing it in Grantaire’s direction. He frowned when a puff of chalk dust went up around it. “Thanks for that, big guy. I’ll see you later.”

“See you," Grantaire mumbled, moving the coat aside gingerly and shifting to adjust the displaced chalk. Eponine watched him for a moment before she took Montparnasse by the hand and dragged him inside the tiny four-room (bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, living room) house the four of them shared. Bahorel lounged against the curb for a bit longer before he spoke again.

“I’m in the mood for something a bit stronger than beer,” Bahorel eventually said. Grantaire turned his head slightly to look at his friend, blowing upwards to move his hair out of his eyes as he did so.

“If you’re going to smoke weed, do it out back. I’m not in the mood,” Grantaire ordered. Bahorel shrugged and stood.

“Suit yourself.” Bahorel picked up one last bottle of beer before heading around the back of their shitty little house. Grantaire spent another forty-five minutes or so on his chalk drawing of his new favorite officer of the law before he stood up on the sidewalk and took it all in. He pulled out his crappy flip-phone and took a picture of the street on it before he hosed the drawing down and headed inside to get some sleep before his next shift at the Musain.

The Musain was a cafe/bar that housed a far higher caliber of customer than Grantaire himself was, but they hired him because he was a good barista and a better bartender, and he was not going to ask any questions. It paid well enough, and he got to interact with actual people, so he was not complaining. The owner, a beautiful woman named Musichetta who spoke strongly and had a killer shape, was more than welcoming to him. Her boyfriend Bossuet, one of the waiters (and also just one of her two boyfriends), was sweet, though a bit accident-prone, and he was nice to everyone. Grantaire liked working there; it gave him a break from spending all his damn time with Bahorel. He took as many shifts at the Musain as he could, and he had another one starting at seven am, which is why he was pissed when he was woken up by a very drunk and excited Eponine at four in the morning.

“Grantaire, wake up,” Eponine stage-whispered in his ear. Grantaire flinched back and rolled into the wall beside his mattress on the floor. He sat up and rubbed at his forehead.

“What the hell do you want?” Grantaire hissed at her. She giggled and tugged at his wrist.

“I called the police,” Eponine informed him excitedly. Grantaire immediately woke up all the way.

“What’s wrong? Did Montparnasse hit you again, because I swear-”

“No, no, nothing’s wrong,” Eponine assured him, tugging at his wrist again. Grantaire finally just stood up so she would stop. She looked at his body and giggled again; Grantaire rolled his eyes and tugged on the pair of pajama pants he had tossed off in the July heat.

“Will you stop laughing and tell me what the fuck is going on?” Grantaire demanded. Eponine cupped her hands around his ear.

“I wanted you to get laid by the hot cop you like,” Eponine said loudly into his ear. Grantaire shoved her back and scowled at her.

“Why the hell would you do that? It’s probably fucking illegal to call the cops when nothing’s wrong, ‘Ponine. I don’t have another five hundred bucks to bail you out with.” Grantaire’s head shot up when a car pulled up outside their house. “Shit. Shit, Eponine!”

“Shh,” Eponine shushed him drunkenly, pressing two fingers to his lips. “I can handle this.”

Grantaire attempted to grab her wrist as she passed, but she danced out of his reach and opened the door before he could get to her.

“Hello, officers,” Eponine called to the two men stepping out of the car. Grantaire dragged her out of the doorway and stepped out onto their top stop, slamming the door behind him. The two cops - one of them was definitely Enjolras, and the other was one he recognized from when he was leaving, the one who sat near the poet cop who sometimes complimented his work - approached him, in full uniform. Grantaire held back a laugh; why the hell did they need full uniforms in a town like this one?

“I’m so sorry, she’s drunk and she called you. She just woke me up to tell me that,” Grantaire informed them apologetically, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. The cop who was strangely familiar that he did not know the name of - whose name-plate on his chest declared him to be Officer Combeferre - simply raised an eyebrow at him, while Officer Enjolras looked angry. Grantaire caught the way Enjolras looked down at his bare chest, though, and he just barely held back a smile.

“That’s illegal,” Combeferre informed Grantaire needlessly. The artist nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Believe you me, I’m pissed at her, too.” Grantaire laughed humorlessly. “I’m really sorry about her. I’m going to talk to her when she’s sober, whenever that is.”

“Are you the one who was at the station earlier tonight?” Enjolras asked suddenly. Grantaire moved his focus to the blond cop before him.

“I am, and that girl is the very same who passed out in your drunk tank,” Grantaire answered. “Again, I’m really sorry about that.”

“I feel like I know you from somewhere,” Combeferre said abruptly, crossing his arms across his chest and appraising Grantaire. Enjolras stiffened slightly. “Do you work at the Musain?”

“I do. A lot.” Grantaire laughed and continued trying to push his hair out of his face. “That’s where I know you from. You’re there sometimes, you’re a friend of ‘Chetta’s and Bossuet’s.”

“I am, Musichetta’s one of us,” Combeferre informed him, smiling slightly at Enjolras. “What a coincidence.”

“I knew she had another job, I just never knew it was as a cop.” Grantaire leaned back against his door and folded his own arms. He yawned absently.

“Tell your friend that what she did was illegal and she’s not to do it again,” Enjolras ordered sternly. Grantaire nodded and saluted.

“Sir, yes, sir.” Grantaire, reacting on impulse, reached into the pockets of his pajama pants and came up with a cigarette, a pen, a couple bracelets, and a scrap of paper. He pressed the scrap of paper to the door and scribbled his name and cell phone number on it before shoving the rest of the items back into his pockets and approaching Enjolras. “Hold out your hand.”

“No,” Enjolras replied automatically. Grantaire rolled his eyes.

“If you ever want a drink at the Musain,” Grantaire began, grabbing Enjolras’ hand for himself and pressing the paper into it, “you call me and let me know. I’ll hook you up.” Grantaire curled Enjolras’ fingers around the scrap of paper and patted his hand. “I’ll catch you two boys later.” Grantaire turned on his heel and made his way back into his little house. When he opened the front door, Eponine was still there, watching him with wide eyes, and Grantaire scowled at her before he slammed the door shut. Combeferre turned to Enjolras, an amused look on his face. Enjolras just shoved the scrap of paper in his pocket.

“Not a word,” Enjolras forced out as he started back for the car. Combeferre raised his hands defensively as he climbed in the passenger seat of the cruiser.

“I noticed you kept his number,” Combeferre commented offhandedly as he buckled his seatbelt. Enjolras shot a glare at him.

“I said _not. A. Word_ ,” Enjolras spat. He slammed his car door.

* * *

“So, what, this guy just gave you his number?” Courfeyrac asked the next day, stretching out like a cat in his chair, his feet up on his desk again. Combeferre raised an eyebrow at him over his glasses, but otherwise said nothing.

“I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him,” Feuilly stated bluntly. Musichetta hit him with a folder.

“Grantaire’s a sweetheart, and one of the best workers I’ve ever seen,” Musichetta assured Enjolras. “You’d be lucky to have him.”

“He’s a really talented artist,” Jehan repeated for the fourth time. He had been writing poetry in a notebook rather than actually doing his work for the better part of an hour. Enjolras scowled at the lot of them.

“This is none of any of your business,” Enjolras said to the room at large. “I’m not going to call him, so it doesn’t matter. End of discussion.”

“Why aren’t you going to call him?” Jehan asked sadly. Enjolras slammed his pen down.

“What about ‘end of discussion’ do you not understand, Prouvaire?” Enjolras snapped. Jehan frowned, and Courfeyrac sat forward, pulling his feet down to rest on the ground.

“Don’t get pissed at him just because you’re all fucked up and conflicted inside,” Courfeyrac shot at his blond friend. Enjolras nodded and turned to face Jehan.

“I’m sorry I was short with you, Jehan,” Enjolras forced out. Jehan waved him off and relaxed in his chair.

“It’s fine. I’ll have to kick your ass next time, though,” Jehan teased. Combeferre smiled down at his paperwork.

“I still think you should call him,” Marius added from his desk, which had been shoved into the corner by Courfeyrac and Feuilly after one too many mentions of Cosette. “Just give it a shot. It can’t hurt, and you need somebody to...”

“To release some tension on,” Courfeyrac supplied helpfully. Enjolras glowered at them and nearly snapped his pen in half. “Or under. Whichever you prefer.”

“This conversation is ending now,” Combeferre stated calmly, without even looking up. That was all it took to get everyone to switch to a new topic of conversation. Enjolras shot him a thankful look; though Combeferre did not look up to receive it, he still smiled.

* * *

“Ballsy,” Bahorel snorted when Grantaire recounted, on Eponine’s insistence, what had happened early that morning. His friends were, as usual, loitering at the Musain while he worked. He never had a moment’s peace from these people. “I can’t believe you gave a cop your phone number. No more running for you, man.”

“I certainly hope not,” Grantaire replied, though he spoke more to himself, under his breath. He shooed the three of them away and out the door when actual paying customers started coming in. Montparnasse raised an eyebrow at him before he left, and Grantaire just nodded once, a code they had set up a while ago that Montparnasse used when he thought Grantaire needed a little release. Grantaire rarely took him up on the offer, but he sometimes needed to just let go. Today was just one of those days.

At least, it had been until several of Musichetta’s cop friends - which made much more sense to him since he had learned Musichetta was a cop in the gaps of time when she was not at the Musain - arrived. Among them were Combeferre, the little poet Jehan, Jehan’s partner, and, of course, Enjolras. They took one of the tables by the window before Jehan left them to come up to the counter.

“Hi, Grantaire,” Jehan greeted enthusiastically, leaning in and kissing Grantaire on each cheek before he looked up at the menu above Grantaire’s head. “I’ll take two chai lattes, one straight black coffee, and one wet cappuccino.” Jehan paused for a moment before he leaned in, resting his elbows on the counter. “Remember when you did the flower in my milk for me that one time?”

“Yeah, why?” Grantaire asked, already setting about making the drinks. Jehan played absently with his braid. Grantaire wondered if he knew he did that.

“Would you do it again, in the cappuccino? I need to prove a point,” Jehan asked. Though Grantaire was slightly suspicious, he nodded and did as Jehan asked. Jehan left Grantaire to return to his table, and Grantaire waved Bossuet away in favor of bringing the drinks over himself. When each of the four men took their drinks, he made to leave, but Jehan’s partner grabbed his sleeve.

“Grantaire, right?” the man asked, grinning widely. Grantaire turned back around.

“Yup, that’s me,” Grantaire answered, his eyes landing on Enjolras for a moment before he redirected his attention to the man who was speaking.

“I’m Courfeyrac. Where’s your phone?” Courfeyrac craned his neck, as though he were trying to look around Grantaire’s apron to his pocket. Grantaire reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone.

“Right here, but I’ve got it on silent when I’m working. Why?” Grantaire did not receive an answer before Courfeyrac snatched the phone from his hand, typing rapidly into it before he shut it and handed it back.

“Thanks,” Courfeyrac said, his smile even wider. He motioned to the phone with his chin. “Also, you had a message.”

“O...kay,” Grantaire replied hesitantly. He eyed the group suspiciously before leaving and hiding in the kitchen. Bossuet did not ask any questions, but simply continued manning the counter, which Grantaire was grateful for. He pulled out his phone and brought up the message that, as Courfeyrac had said, was waiting for him. The sender’s name read _Enjolras_ , rather than an unknown number, and Grantaire suddenly realized Courfeyrac must have put Enjolras’ number into his phone. He read the message quickly, having no idea how much effort Enjolras had put into that one message, just so he could get across exactly what he meant to say.

 **Enjolras (11:11am):** _I’d like to get to know you better._

Grantaire smiled smugly at his phone before he tucked it back into his pocket. That could certainly be arranged.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still going to be doing 'Stay Irresponsible', but I want to work on this, too. Give me feedback on how you think this is. I want to do something unlike 'Stay Irresponsible'; where SI is indulgent and incredibly domestic and nonsensical at times, this series is going to be slower building and make more sense and have more of a plot to it. Of course, I won't abandon either one, so don't worry.
> 
> You can follow me on Twitter at [@nicoIodeon](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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